Yesterday we went along to our local Sally Ann thrift shop with bags of soft-back novels, videos, dishes, replaced light fixtures, clothing and other items that were ready to shed, perfectly usable and recyclable. We always look around while we're there, for other items that other people have brought in, that might be of interest to us. It's where we acquire most of our reading material. And I, my wardrobe, truth to tell. And have, for many years.

Almost immediately upon entering I came face to face with an old friend. Smiling, as usual, declaring how glad she was to see me. She had asked after me, she said, a week earlier, when my husband had dropped by to look around at the videos. I knew, I told her, and I was glad to see her, too. As usual she looked as though she were pregnant, just as she did when we first met so long ago. She isn't, and she is a slight woman, delicately built, so I cannot imagine why her stomach protrudes as it does.

She told me years ago that she was from, I believe, Sudan. That was back when our granddaughter was very young and we were her day-care providers while her mother worked. We used, to, on occasion, take her there to look about for toys to supplement the ones she had. She has always been a friendly, open person, and I was always glad to see her. I felt fortunate, in fact, that she was so open and friendly, glad to be greeted familiarly by her. And I returned that familiarity and open greeting, to a good extent.

She is always dressed well, has an air of being confidently comfortable within herself. She is a devout Christian, speaking always of her faith, and I know she is a regular church-goer, since she has mentioned that to me. I know also that to arrive at her place of work, the closest Salvation Army thrift shop to where we live, she has to travel by public transit quite a distance. She is married, but seldom speaks of her husband. She has told me that she spends roughly three hours each day, going to the store from her home and then back again.

She never, ever complains. She enjoys her work, and is grateful to have this job. I don't believe she has ever looked elsewhere for another place to work because she is comfortable where she is. She believes in being grateful for what one has, not being resentful for what one has not got. And she tells me this. She tells me other things, her concern for her extended family members because of unrest and violence in her home country. She is glad to be in Canada, sad that her family is elsewhere.

She asks continually about our daughter, since I once told her, at her querying, that our daughter's occupation is one of instability, looking for work contracts, with occasional stints of troubling unemployment. She asks also about our granddaughter, having last seen her when she was young; when children reach their teens it is with great annoyance on their part that they be taken to second-hand shops; when they reach mid-teens they will not be moved to enter such places.

Our relationship is not quite that of equals. I admire her tenacity of spirit and hopefulness, her resolute comfort in her faith, her unfailing good spirits, although I have seen her pensive and almost sad. She feels free to ask anything of me. I would like to ask things about her personal life as she does with me, but I feel constrained. It's the Canadian in me, I think, that makes me hesitate to seem to be prying.